


Caught in the Riptide

by CayCharming, Izaura



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Cocaine, Depression, Drugs, M/M, Near Death Experiences, Past Abuse, Physical Abuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:28:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,675
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746485
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CayCharming/pseuds/CayCharming, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Izaura/pseuds/Izaura
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is the one Sherlock calls for in his time of need. It's a good thing he does, too, because without him, Sherlock would surely have gotten caught in the riptide.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Caught in the Riptide

Sherlock sat on the washroom floor, holding his stomach as his head swirled. All that was running through his head was _I need help, I need help_ as he blindly reached for his cellphone, a soft sound of impatience being emitted from his trembling lips as he searched his pockets needily. After closing his slender fingers around the seemingly cold object, they began positively shaking as he tried to unlock it once, twice, and on the third try he successfully did so. His fingers then began typing a hasty and urgent message to his flatmate, totally forgetting why he wasn’t even at home, along with anything other than the thought of how incredibly close to a panic attack, or death, or even worse, _both_ that he felt.

 **To: John**  
I think I'm overdosing. I need you. SH

Meanwhile, the said man was at work, talking with a client. He was in the middle of prescribing a certain drug, writing a doctor’s note on a slip of paper so that his patient could receive such, when his cell phone lit up.

If it wasn’t sitting right beside the pad of paper, and thank the Lord above that it was, his eyes wouldn’t have landed over the small text that popped up on the screen, showing a new message and a preview for it. His eyes widened as his brain registered the key word.

 **To: Sherlock**  
Overdosing? Jesus, Sherlock. What did you take? JW

Sherlock immediately texted back, holding in a retch as his stomach curved in nauseation, while John quickly sent his patient out of the door with the note and a quick goodbye, before grabbing his keys and abandoning basically everything else.

 **To: John**  
Too much. I got scared, and I freaked out, I snapped. I... cocaine. I took too much. SH

The only thing John mentioned to his secretary was that he was leaving his shift early, not even caring about the repercussions of that thoughtless action as he did so. His fingers began flying over his phone’s keypad as he typed back while his small legs carried him as quickly as they possibly could to the street.

 **To: Sherlock**  
Alright, okay. I'm here. Are you at the flat? I'm going to call 999. JW

As soon as he sent the text, that was what he did, his phone vibrating with the new messages before he was even off of the phone.

 **To: John**  
I'm in the washroom. I feel so sick. I need to throw up... SH  
**To: John**  
You didn't raise the temperature in the flat, right, John? It's absolutely boiling. SH

John’s lips pursed, his heart beating harder. His next call was to a cab.

 **To: Sherlock**  
I didn't raise it, Sherlock. I'm on my way home right now. We're going to get you to the hospital, alright? They're going to be able to help you a lot faster than I can. JW

Sherlock felt a sob rack through him, his body shaking as he tried to figure out exactly what was going on, even though, in the back of his mind, he knew full well. All he could pay even a sliver of attention to was texting John back, as soon as the nausea subsided.

 **To: John**  
I just need you. I need to see you. You were the first person I thought to contact. I'm so fucking scared. I'm so sorry. SH

 **To: Sherlock**  
Don't be sorry. Please, don't be. I'm happy you got to me first. Do you think you could take your temperature? JW

 **To: John**  
I... yeah. Hold on. SH  
**To: John (delayed)**  
It says 42C/107F.

John couldn’t help but ask the driver to go faster, vaguely explaining as best he could in his panicked mindset what was going on. Although, he wasn’t sure the driver needed much verbal convincing to step on the gas, as he was sure his stricken face conveyed most of it.

 **To: Sherlock**  
Okay, good. That's good. If it had been over 120F they would have had to put you in an ice water bath. JW  
**To: Sherlock**  
Do me a favor and go open the freezer and go sit by it. You need to be in a cool environment. JW

Sherlock felt like falling over the second he tried to move any of his muscles (which were spasming like hell, for some reason), and he steadied himself on the sink. Turning, he rested himself against the porcelain, texting back before he continued his slow journey down the hall.

 **To: John**  
Okay. God, it feels like I've run a fucking marathon. Will you be home soon? SH

When the text was sent, Sherlock tumbled down to the kitchen. He grasped against the walls, repeatedly trying to find something to hold as he paused to get his balance. It felt like just that; a giant run across the world, mixed with both a feeling of being drunk and the steady pounding in his head from a nasty hangover.

 **To: Sherlock**  
Yes, very soon. I'm in a cab and he's breaking many laws to make sure I get there quickly. Drink some water, alright? I'm worried you might be dehydrated as well. JW

 **To: John**  
It's so hard to move. Fucking hell, I'm so scared. Thank you for getting here. I... okay. Water. Yeah. SH

Sherlock really hated moving. Hated it. In this moment he hated it more than the police, and that was saying something. But then, maybe the police, the ambulance, could help right about now… His heart beat slowed a little, just for a fraction of a second, when he remembered that they were coming. With John.

But he did end up moving after opening the freezer and fridge, realizing that he really should and began filling a cup with clear liquid from the tap before slumping down in a seat at the table, the water placed atop the wood in a lurching motion.

 **To: Sherlock**  
It's going to be alright. You're conscious, that's a good thing. Just stay that way for me. JW

 **To: John**  
I'm trying. I'm trying really hard. It doesn't really feel like I'm fully conscious, though. SH

John jumped out of the cab before it even had proper time to stop in front of the flat. He could hear the sirens in the distances. The ambulance would be here soon. He ran up the stairs, ignoring Mrs. Hudson who was asking what the rush was.

"Sherlock!" he called frantically, opening the door and dashing into the kitchen to find his friend slumped face forward on the table. "Sherlock!" he said, running forward and forcing Sherlock to sit up properly in the chair. "Hey, Sherlock. Sherlock, open your eyes and look at me,” he pleaded as he held the man by the shoulders. "Sherlock, come on. Wake up for me, alright?"

Previously, Sherlock had felt like he was going to fall asleep by the time he clicked 'send' on the last text, feeling dizzy and disoriented. He vaguely wondered where exactly he was before remembering that he had gotten to the kitchen, somehow, because John had told him to. John. John... Right, he was coming over, and...

When Sherlock was forced to sit upward, his body moved lazily, and his eyes fluttered open at the sound of his flatmate's voice. His body shook slightly for a moment, his chest moving up and down slightly quicker as his eyes searched for John, before settling on his eyes as he smiled a little. "Hey," he said quietly, hands moving to hold, grasping onto John's arms slightly. "You got here fast."

"Well, yes, it's not everyday you put yourself in this much danger," John noted, smiling just a bit because he didn't want to give Sherlock any reason to think he was upset with him. That would come later, much later when he was sure he'd be alright. "The medics are about to be here and we're going to get you to the hospital, okay?" he said, and frowned when he touched Sherlock's face. He was burning up. He grabbed the glass of water on the table and poured over Sherlock's head, keeping a hand over Sherlock's eyes to make sure water did not get in them. "Sorry, you're just getting a bit too hot,” he explained.

Sherlock sat there, jumping slightly at the cool water but sighed in relief when his brain registered what it was. He closed his eyes, feeling like his heart was beating out of his chest as he blinked when the water felt like it was done pouring. "Oh, they're not here yet?" he mumbled to himself, wondering who the hell it was, exactly, talking other than John. "Right..." he said lowly, hands trembling as he removed them from John to place them in his lap. "You're coming too, right?" he asked, blinking as he shook his head a little, blocking out the apparently unreal murmuring.

"Of course I am," John said quickly. He gently cupped Sherlock's face, looking into his eyes and noticing how dilated they were. There was no doubt of what was happening, none at all. Still, he tried to appear calm, not wanting to give Sherlock more reason to be anxious. He smiled, brushing some hair out of Sherlock's face. "I'm your doctor, of course I'm going to be going with you," he said and he let out a sigh of relief once he heard Mrs. Hudson letting the paramedics in down stairs. "You ready to take a little trip to the hospital?"

"Mmmhm," Sherlock mumbled lightly, leaning a little into the touches of his hair, eyes closing again for a moment as he mentally tried to calm his beating heart. But even that was a pain, as he had trouble locating all of his thoughts, and instead he just looked up at John instead and kept him as a constant. He smiled a little as he heard the stomping of shoes on the stairs, and the opening of the door in the living room. "...I'm terrified, John," Sherlock mumbled quietly, still not entirely connecting to the situation. He knew he was overdosing, he knew he was in trouble, and he knew he was scared as all hell, but it just felt so hard to pay attention. He felt ridiculously delirious, and he looked behind John for a moment to see the paramedics.

"Don't be," John said softly. "It's going to be alright. I'm going to stay right here with you," he swore and he cursed when the paramedics shoved him away to try to tend to Sherlock. "Don't bother, we need to get him to the emergency room. He's overdosed on cocaine and he needs treatment," he ordered, and thankfully they listened to him.

It took quite a bit of work but they got Sherlock into the ambulance. "Everything's going to be okay,” he promised Sherlock as he held his hand tightly. His friend appeared to be drifting in and out of consciousness and it was becoming harder to keep him at attention. They forced his hand away so they could check Sherlock's pulse and John ran a hand over his face, trying his best to stay calm even though his heart was hammering with fear.

Sherlock really didn't remember much of the movement from his seat in the chair to the hospital. All he really paid attention to was John's voice through the manic, and really that was what kept pulling him back to reality every time he felt like he was drifting away. His body and his mind felt like two separate things; on one hand, his fever was climbing impossibly high, his chest seemed like it was constricted as though there wasn't enough room for his rapidly beating heart to do so, and he couldn't really breathe. On the other hand, his mind felt relaxed, like it was swimming through thoughts, and he wanted to speak a million thanks to John because truthfully, without him, he probably would let the waves pull him out.

When he felt the hand on his face, he knew who it was, and it made his heart feel like it was at a standstill. He couldn't decide whether to keep letting his mind swirl with exhausted thoughts, or to try to speak to him, because his mind wanted to scream. He didn't feel right, not at all. "John..." he mumbled quietly, ignoring everything the paramedics were doing to him. He really didn't know what he wanted to say now to the other, the thoughts completely gone and replaced with useless new ones. But he just, somehow, wanted him to know that he knew he was there, and was thankful for that.

"Yes?" John asked, suddenly at attention at the sound of Sherlock's voice. The paramedics tried to keep him at a distance but after they noticed that Sherlock's rapid pulse seemed to slow just a tad when John was close, they let him be. "I'm here, Sherlock. I'm here," John promised and smiled at his friend who's eyes were open just a little. "We're almost there. We're going to take care of you,” he insisted because he did not want Sherlock to fear anything right now. "You're going to be perfectly fine, don't be scared."

Sherlock, even if he wasn't in this state, probably would have still believed John wholeheartedly. John was the one he trusted most, and he didn't entirely trust anyone; that's why John was notified immediately the second Sherlock realized something was wrong with his high. He couldn't remember exactly how much he had taken, but he knew it was a lot, and he knew it was strong. He could remember being back in the flat, remembering things he could have sworn he deleted, and new things he knew he had to delete soon... no, just focus on John. John.

Instead of responding, he let his head roll to the side a little as he looked up at the man through the slits of his eyes, eyelids low and heavy. He smiled back slightly, nodding as best he could as he tried to catch his breath. "Thanks," he mumbled again, trying to hold onto the words John had said about him being almost to the hospital, being okay.

"Anytime," John said honestly, wishing he could do more for Sherlock. He would trade places with him if he could be given the chance. He was pushed aside once again when the abundance came to a stop.

"Where are you taking him?" John demanded because he wanted to be there, he never wanted to leave Sherlock's side.

"To treatment, you can't come. Just wait in the waiting room and the doctor will give you an update as soon as possible,” a paramedic said before rushing off with Sherlock on a stretcher. John followed after them, determined to stay with Sherlock until they forced him away again.

"It's going to be okay, Sherlock!" he called to his friend because he could see the slightly worried expression on his face. "It's fine, I'm here,” he reminded him and then they finally stopped him in the waiting room as Sherlock was taken away. John gripped the wall, trying to calm himself as he watched the view of the stretcher recede. He would need to call Mycroft because no doctor was going to give him any information without being family.

At the time, Mycroft had been sitting in his office, twirling his umbrella on the floor as he held it in his hand. He was on the phone with someone, having a conversation vaguely about something to do with freelance issues, when he heard his cell phone ring. He paused, telling the person on the office phone to wait just one moment before he pressed hold.

"What do you want, John?" the man said the second he pressed accept on the call. "And do please make it quick, I am dealing with someone at the moment," he continued, staring at his desk absently.

John's hands were shaking as he held the phone, or was his entire body shaking? He could no longer tell as he sat in a very uncomfortable chair in the waiting room. He had to sit or else he kept pacing around like a lunatic. "Quick?" John asked, laughing a bit because he shouldn't have expected much less from Mycroft Holmes. "Alright, here's quick for you. Your brother's overdosed and you need to get your arse to the hospital now because they are not going to tell me shit about his condition because I am not a relative," he snapped quietly, looking away when he received some ugly looks from people.

"Overdosed?" Mycroft laughed gently, taking no mind to what John had said to him, thoughts still on the call with his, you could say, client. "You've got to be kidding, there is absolutely nothing my brother would have--" he began, before he stalled completely. His hand stopped twirling his umbrella, and time felt like it completely froze. He pulled his phone away from his face, just to turn the other call back on. "I'll call you back," he said clearly, before putting the receiver back down to pick up his cellphone again. "You don't mean on cocaine, do you?" he asked, voice stern as he stood from his chair to pace.

"Yes, cocaine," John said, trying his best not to get angry because there was no real reason to be angry, not yet. "I don't know what happened but he texted me and told me he thought he had overdosed, which he had,” he whispered, and he stood, moving away from the people in the room so they could not hear him. "We've got him to the emergency room and they won't tell me anything. I think he's going to be alright, he was conscious most of the time, that's a good thing,” he muttered.

"Victor..." Mycroft mumbled absently, letting his umbrella lean against the nearby wall as he brought a hand up so that he could pinch the bridge of his nose. "Alright, I'll be there soon," he said, before picking up his umbrella again, walking swiftly to the other end of the room and opening the door, not even telling anyone where he was going. "Do tell me if you, for some reason, hear anything," Mycroft said clearly, an unspoken threat to kill John if he didn't was easily detectable in his tone.

"I will. Just get here," John said and then ended the phone call. He put his phone away in his pocket, wondering who the hell Victor was and what he had to do with any of this. He went back to his seat, his hands gripping the armrests. He wasn't one for praying... not normally but now he could not stop himself from repeating a silent prayer in his head that Sherlock would live. He had to live. He couldn't handle a life without Sherlock, he just couldn't.

Mycroft sped to the hospital in a cab as fast as he could, tempted to make as many threats as humanly possible in order to get there even faster, even though they were already getting honked at because of the swerving. The second he arrived at the hospital, he threw some money at the driver without even a care if he was five pounds or five hundred pounds over the price he was supposed to pay.

Mycroft cared deeply for his brother, and this was one of the only times he'd truly let it be mentioned, let alone seen as its true form: brotherly love and protection, instead of playful hate and family feuds.

He soon made his way to the waiting room, locating John immediately. He sat beside him, legs crossed, umbrella clenched hard in his hand, knuckles white. "Tell me what happened," he said, tone clipped, as he stared at the wall.

John looked at Mycroft with confusion for a moment, he appeared so calm but John noticed the small things that showed just how terrified he was. He looked away from the man and down at his hands in his lap. "I was at work, he texted me and told me he thought he had an overdose,” he began slowly. "He told me it was cocaine and that… that he was scared,” he forced out, wishing his chest wasn't tightening with the threat of tears. He shouldn't cry. Not now. Not in front of Mycroft. "He said he was at the flat, I called the paramedics and I got there shortly before they did. He… He was burning up when I got there. I wouldn't be surprised if they had to immerse him in ice water to bring the fever down."

Mycroft swore to himself that he was going to kill his brother if the overdose hadn't done so already. The thought of such made his chest feel constricted, but he ignored it, tapping the foot on his crossed leg against the air rhythmically. "He has not touched cocaine in a very long time, John," he said, voice low as his own eyes trailed from the wall to the floor, gulping silently. "Has he seemed, off to you, recently? Is there anything that could have hinted toward him doing such a thing, perhaps?"

John thought for a moment, trying his best to think of everything that had happened within the last few months. He could not think of anything that alerted his suspicions and then gripped the chair tighter, trying to think the way Sherlock had taught him. To observe as well as see. The only thing that was a possible clue to what was going on is Sherlock's sudden need to go to the morgue more often. John did not like to think of whatever experiments Sherlock was going off to do but he now noticed he should have found it odd how Sherlock did not come back with anything to experiment on or any sort of news on his discoveries. John stomped one foot in his anger for being so stupid. "He was lying to me about going to the morgue. He started doing that about two months ago."

Mycroft stayed silent for a moment. "Remember when we first met, and I asked you to watch over my brother for me?" he asked patiently, anger bubbling up inside him as his foot tapped a little faster, hand clenched a little tighter. "I need you to do that now. Sherlock may hate you for paying such close attention, but when he gets out of this and goes home with you, I need you to tell me _everything_ that seems even _remotely_ out of the ordinary, am I clear?" Mycroft said, tone laced with bite, before he took a breath and looked back at the wall, never once looking over at John. "I was worried this would happen," he finished, voice small as he murmured to himself, eyes closing momentarily as he breathed deeply again.

"Oh really? If that was the case then you could have given me some bloody warning," John snapped back but then he bit his lip. He didn't have any right to be angry. He was the one that had failed Sherlock. He was the one that had not looked after him like he should have been doing. "I will,” he muttered, looking up toward the ceiling. "I'll let you know if anything strange is going on. But I doubt I'll fucking notice given I didn't notice that he would go to the morgue and not return with anything like he normally does,” he hissed, more angry with himself than anything. "He seemed fine. I don't know what happened, but he seemed fine,” he mumbled, burying his face in his hands.

"Sherlock is never 'fine', John," Mycroft replied, pursing his lips as he completely ignored the whole comment about warning John. "I wasn't even aware of the possibility of this occurring until quite recently," he said quietly, his tapping of the air slowing once more. "Just know, John, that you have helped more than you think. If he hadn't have met you, I'm one hundred percent sure that something to this degree would have happened when this all started again two months ago, if not sooner," he continued, sighing gently. "And if it's any consolation, I'm quite enraged with myself as well. We both should have noticed something, even if I don't have contact with him very often at all.”

"I knew, I knew he used to have a drug problem, I knew that early on but… he hasn't ever given any sort of sign that he was starting to relapse again," John said, lifting his head and trying to think of any other sign of Sherlock's problem. "He's going to kill me for suggesting this but perhaps you should put some cameras in the flat. Just until we're really sure he's going to stay clean. I can't watch him all the time and clearly he's going to need to be watched,” he said and even though Sherlock wasn't around he could imagine how annoyed his friend would be at this idea. "I… I want him to be okay. Even if that does mean monitoring him like a child."

"I don't exactly think Sherlock was relapsing two months ago, if that's what you're referring to," Mycroft said, shaking his head a little as he thought about how to explain. "This could have very well been his first time using since he kicked the habit. I don't know for sure, but I do know now that there were things going on since two months ago and during those times when he was 'at the morgue' that recently came to light, and are no doubt the trigger," he mentioned, but was careful not to go into too much detail. "Which is why I very much agree to your ideas. I'm just worried for when he actually leaves the flat," he mumbled, cursing himself as he tried to figure out a plan. His deduction skills were absolutely no joke, and everyone knew; he could quite possibly be better than his brother at such things, but when it came to actually deducing things about his brother, he felt very... ordinary, and he hated himself for it, though he'd never let that fact be shown.

"We could have him followed," John said and as soon as the words left his mouth, his skin crawled. It felt so vile to suggest something like that. Sherlock deserved privacy like everyone else but they could no longer trust him to be alone. "But given who he is he'll be able to escape anyone following him anyway,” he sighed, standing up and running a hand through his hair. "I'll just… I'll leave work for a while. That way I can watch him more closely even though he's going to hate it more than anything."

Mycroft finally turned his head upwards, looking up at the man momentarily as he began to speak, nodding slightly. "As much as I do respect your work and think you should do such, I do believe that would be the best option," he began, closing his eyes as his head tipped back down. "I can easily give you two a monthly payment to cover what you would be getting from work," he said confidently, chest rising slightly before his lungs emptied themselves once more, silence falling between the two before eventually, he spoke, voice slightly grave. "I also think you need to talk to him about this. Figure out what's going on. If he doesn't let you bring it up, do not be persistent because he will quite obviously be fragile after this, but I'm sure he'll tell you something. He'd tell you more than he would me, anyway."

John nodded slowly as he paced, not being able to stop himself from doing so. It was good that they were talking about this, as if everything with Sherlock was going to be fine and they had more to worry about later rather than now. "You don't have to pay me anything. I'll do it for him. He needs me and I'm going to be there,” he said firmly. "And I doubt he's going to be very willing to talk about it. But I'll try. I want to help him. I really do, he's just has to be willing to let me do it,” he explained.

Mycroft nodded, still intending on sending the two men some money so they could live well. "Regardless, I'm sure he will, in due time," he said, now beginning to twirl his umbrella on the ground once more, never shifting position. "He never really likes to talk, but this is different. It hasn't been this way in ages, and I'm sure he's going to need someone..." he trailed off, before sighing as he tapped the tip of the umbrella on the cold floor repeatedly. "Besides, he did text you of all people, and even said that he was _scared_. In case you didn't know, my brother doesn't just get _scared_. So if he really wanted... what happened to have happened, he would have no doubt have let it. Of that much, I am sure."

John froze in his pacing, looking at the wall as what Mycroft said settled in. He had never even considered the possibility of Sherlock doing this on purpose. He turned to look at Mycroft, seeing the grim look on his face. Sherlock had been through some terrible times and that was becoming more clear now. He did not dare ask if there was a time where Sherlock had tried to purposefully overdose, he did not even want to think of such a thing. "It was all just accident. He was scared to death, he never meant to do that,” he agreed softly before continuing his pacing. "He's going to be upset with me though. He wouldn't have wanted me to contact you,” he pointed out.

Mycroft couldn't help but scoff audibly. "Frankly, I don't give a damn whether Sherlock wanted me to know or not. He doesn't want me to know anything," he said, shaking his head as he looked at his cellphone, realizing it had been a while since he had arrived at the hospital, and worry settled back into his veins once more. "But he'll be happy that you did contact me once I am able to write him out of here," he added, nodding purposefully as he clicked his tongue. "So thank you, for letting me know about this entire situation."

"You’re his family, you deserve to know," John said simply as he clenched his hands over and over again as he paced. "And I knew they wouldn't tell me a damn thing. They need a family member… could have lied and said I was his husband or something,” he muttered and before he could think too much on why saying such a thing did not bother him, a doctor appeared in the waiting room.

"Is anyone here related to a Sherlock Holmes?" He asked and John stepped forward.

"I live with him," he said quickly and then gestured to Mycroft who was now walking over. "And this is his brother,” he explained and the doctor nodded curtly.

"Very well then, an update on Mr. Holmes, it was an uphill battle but we finally have him stabilized. He is currently unconscious and so we would like to keep him with us for a day or two to make sure he stays stable, but not to worry, he is well,” he said and John could not stop the sound of relief that escaped him. He was alright. Sherlock was alright and he had not lost the one person in this world who understood and accepted him.

"Oh God," he breathed, laughing a bit as he hid his face.

Mycroft felt like he could fall apart at that very moment, and it was a very rare moment indeed. Not just because of the fact that Sherlock was in the hospital, about to die, but because he felt so many emotions toward his brother. But he hid them well behind his pale eyes and rigid features, a mask he decided to wear at every moment he could. Including now.

He was angry (pissed, practically), upset, hurt, confused... but most of all, happy.

After giving his thanks to the doctor, Mycroft silently turned to John. "I'm going to go back to my office, then, as I’m sure you’ll have this under great control from now on," he said, tapping his umbrella once on the ground for emphasis to his statement. "He surely would not be too pleased to see me at the moment, and the last thing he should be right now is upset. Please do send him my regards, however, and call me when he can leave so that I may come collect him," he said, nodding once down at the man in front of him who looked like he could break down from relieved tears any second.

"Now, I have other things to deal with. Goodbye, John. And thank you again," he said solemnly to both the said man and the doctor, before spinning on his heels and walking toward the entrance.

John watched Mycroft leave for a moment. He cared for Sherlock more than he preferred to show, even to his own brother but John was beginning to see it more clearly. He smiled, rubbing his eyes to keep any tears from escaping.

After asking, a nurse led him to Sherlock's room where he was greeted to the sight of Sherlock asleep in a hospital bed. He looked far more pale than he liked but John was sure that would change over time. He took a seat by Sherlock's bedside, holding one his hands as he looked the man over. He looked peaceful for the most part and that was comforting. The nurse left them alone and he sighed, resting his head near Sherlock's hand.

"Don't ever scare me like that again,” he ordered.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading chapter one. Please leave a Kudos ♥ and a comment if you enjoyed. Thanks!


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